


The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [109]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: After the wittering Miss Mortimeria De'Ath, there is the formidable Mrs. Emmeline Strong – two different ladies but, predictably, two annoyingly similar simpers in the direction of one scruffy detective! And no, John is not jealous!Shut up!





	The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb (1889)

**Author's Note:**

> The original title was, more correctly, "The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb-Print", but unfortunately a printing error changed it at the last minute, and my publishers actually preferred the shorter version.

It was ironic that the next client to draw Sherlock into a case worthy of publication was also female, but that she could not have been more different than our last one. Mrs. Emmeline Strong, a supporter of the suffragist movement (although that did not relate to her case) was most definitely someone to be reckoned with. I was ambivalent towards her political movement – I believed that propertied women would get the vote sooner or later, just as most propertied men had got it some five years back – but that it would take time. After all, it had been five and a half centuries between Simon de Montfort and the Great Reform Act, and full thirty-five years after that before any more changes. Though the poor old earl would surely have been spinning in his grave at the idea of _ladies_ getting the vote!

To call Mrs. Emmeline Strong 'formidable' would have been passing up the chance to use the adjective ‘terrifying’. She charged into our apartments in Baker Street like an old-time galleon heading into battle, and she was built like one, too. I swear the fireside chair creaked when she descended upon it, but fortunately it held. She stared sharply at Sherlock in silence for what must have been a whole minute before speaking.

“You, sir, are short!”

I coughed, trying to hide my shock. Although a couple of inches shorter than myself, Sherlock was in fact some little way above average height, although in fairness he often carried himself as a smaller man. And anyone would have been considered short when compared to the leviathan that had just descended upon us. 

To my friend's eternal credit, he held both his nerve and his manners.

“I am six foot and one-half inches in height, madam”, he said politely. "That is, taking an average of current estimates, some six inches taller than the average Victorian gentleman."

“I prefer short men”, she said curtly. “Mr. Æsop was quite right when he said that shorter men are wiser, even if my husband is all intelligence and no sense whatsoever. I need someone sensible for this matter. You will do.”

I had seen all sorts of people try to persuade Sherlock to take their cases, using a whole range of different approaches. This was… very different. I noticed a slight turning up at the corner of my friend's mouth, so he too was clearly amused by the lady's forthrightness.

“How may I be of service, madam?” he said. “At the moment the only things I know of your case is that your husband is most likely an engineer, that you came through Paddington Station this morning, that you are careful with your money, that you take pride in your appearance, and that you have a minor sight problem.”

That finally seemed to halt her progress, at least temporarily. She peered at him distrustfully.

“Explain!” she barked, as if she were commanding a dog that had just performed an unexpected new trick.

“Your ring is engraved twisted metal, clearly created by someone knowledgeable in the field of engineering”, Sherlock explained. “There is also no green mark on your finger, which implies that whoever made it knew to combine certain metals to prevent that, a skill that is quite rare. That would imply either engineering or jewellery, but the engraving is not exactly even, suggesting that it was not done in a jewellery shop. I note that the ring also has a most ingenious device, which shops do not fit unless asked, which allows it to be expanded slightly; most people's fingers increase slightly in circumference as they age. Then there are particles of fine soot on your wrap; only the Great Western Railway uses Welsh coal, so you came through their station, Paddington. It had rained lightly in the past ten minutes, so your damp coat indicates that you walked rather took a cab, even though Paddington is a good twenty minutes away from here. Hence you are careful with money. Finally, there are faint marks either side of your nose, which shows that you usually wear glasses, yet you have removed them before coming here.”

She snorted approvingly.

“Yes, you will do!” she said. “I want you to investigate something which my husband says is not worth looking at, but my woman’s intuition says otherwise. Do you believe in such things, Mr. Holmes?”

I privately thought little of women's intuition (though I was not going to voice that thought in this lady's presence!), as I considered that most women who claimed it merely used it as an excuse to entice my friend 'intuit' their bedchambers. Sherlock shot me a look, and smirked annoyingly.

“I believe that, on a subconscious level, you may have seen something which has triggered an alarm bell in your head without consciously knowing why”, he said. “Intuition is one name for such an experience. Pray tell me about your case, madam.”

She sat back – I winced as the chair creaked again – and started her tale.

“My name is Mrs. Emmeline Strong. I live with my husband Edward at number fifty-two, St. Æthelred’s Street, Ealing. He is employed, as you said, by that venerable institution the Great Western Railway Company as an engineer, working on designing railway structures. We have been married for twenty-five years, and are comfortably well-off.”

“Some time back, the Company decided that it would build a deviation to its line through Wiltshire, near the town of Bolton St. John’s. Edward told me that the old line was quite steep; the new one would go through a cutting. Part of it also involved building a new and quite substantial bridge across the River Larch. There are three engineers at the office where Edward works, and all were asked to submit designs for the bridge. Of course Edward’s was the one that they chose.”

I smiled at the evident pride in her tone when she spoke of her husband.

“Edward had to submit a detailed final plan at the end of last year”, she went on. “Work on the bridge was to start a few months later, in autumn of this year; the line is already under construction, and Edward was surprised when he went into the general manager’s office one day last week to find his plan on that person’s table. Mercifully he succumbed to the human sin of curiosity, and looked at it.”

She paused.

“This next part makes no sense at all, but I know from reading your friend's stories that the strangest things can sometimes assume more importance than might seem due, so I shall mention it. When Edward drew up the plans, he stayed late at work to finish them off, rather than bring them home every night. He remembered that there was a faint coal thumb-print of his in the right-hand corner of the plans, which his superior – a most obnoxious personage by the name of Mr. Hilary Benton – kindly remarked on _after_ he had submitted them, and refused to let him redraw them. Except that when my husband looked at the same plans last week, the thumb-print was gone!”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and eyed our visitor thoughtfully.

“Why?” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?” she said. 

“Why would someone substitute one set of plans for another.”

She hesitated.

“I said that the three men in the office each submitted their own plans for that bridge”, she said, clearly being careful with her words. “One, Mr. Mark Filton, is pleasant enough and quite friendly to dear Edward, and he has only just started there, but the other, Mr. Simeon Stubbs, is a most disreputable fellow. He is a cousin of Mr. Benton, and hopes to succeed him when he retires in a few years’ time. His failure to have his bridge selected went down very badly, according to my dear Edward.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “You believe that either Mr. Benton or Mr. Stubbs has changed some of your husband’s figures, so that the bridge will fail or be unworkable.”

(The reader might remember at this point that this happened less than a decade after the disastrous collapse of the Tay Bridge, which had brought an end to our Scottish case ("The Musgrave Ritual"). This case also happened less than one month after the terrible Armagh railway disaster, when some eighty people had been killed in an overly heavy train that had split, the back part running down a steep incline and smashing into a second train. Railways were not exactly covering themselves with glory over their safety records at this time).

Our visitor frowned. 

“ _That_ is the problem, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “The general manager, a Mr. Angus MacKay, is the one who actually made the decision on the bridge design. He is a Scotsman, and a little too prideful over certain matters, but I would swear that he is honest. And I know for a fact that he was there when Edward handed his design to Mr. Benton, and immediately took possession of it. I have thought on this, and I believe that someone of Mr. MacKay's experience would know if numbers on a drawing had been altered, which means that the design must have been changed _before_ Edward handed it in. Yet I have gone through what happened, and there seemed no opportunity to do that. Hence I have come to you.”

“Perhaps you might tell me exactly what happened during that time”, Sherlock offered, “and I shall see what can be made of it.”

She nodded, and extracted a large notebook from her copious bag. Putting on her glasses, she began.

“Edward finished the design at approximately five minutes past six on a Tuesday”, she said, “and handed it over to Mr. Benton and Mr. MacKay at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. That, according to my own calculations, left some fifteen hours in which the document could have been tampered with or replaced. Mr. Stubbs was the only other employee at the office at the time – Mr. Filton had had to take some important documents to Swindon - and although the former wandered over to look at Edward’s work from time to time, he was never left alone with it. My husband did not trust him, quite rightly in my opinion.”

“I should say that Edward normally leaves the documents at work locked in a secure draw to which only he has a key, but he had recently found out that Mr. Benton had somehow obtained a key to it as well _ I am sure that the odious Mr. Benton was behind that - so he decided that for the last night, it might be advisable to bring them home.”

I thought privately that the lady would have made an excellent witness. Or perhaps a terrifying police constable. If what they say about fear keeping people honest is true, she could easily have subdued a large part of London!

“He came home on the train as usual, stopping only at the local store to pick up some iced biscuits that I had asked him to purchase for me”, she continued. “He is quite capable with small tasks like that. He arrived home at approximately eight o’clock, and we all sat down to dinner.”

“One moment, please”, Sherlock put in. “You said ‘we’. Was it just yourself and your husband?”

“We are blest, if that is the right word, with two sons and one daughter”, she said. “Only the oldest son, Edgar, was with us that evening. Edwy was out at the theatre and staying overnight at a friend’s house in the city, and Audrey was still away at boarding school. There is usually one maid in the house, Berenice, but I had given her two weeks off because her mother was seriously ill, and her replacement only came in during the daytime. Paid leave; I expect my maid to work hard, and in return I treat her fairly.”

Maybe there was some silk in the iron, I thought with a smile.

“No cook?” Sherlock asked.

“I am inordinately fond of cooking myself, so I do not see the need”, she said firmly. “If a woman cannot keep a man fed, then she should not keep a man. Edward fully agrees with me in that.”

If he knows what is good for him, I thought with a smile. I caught a warning glance from Sherlock, and blushed. Was I that obvious?

“Where were the plans located after your husband came home?” Sherlock asked, sending me a most annoying nod.

“In the front room”, she said. “Edward placed them on his writing-desk - he does not have it in the study because of the poor light there - when he came in, and there they stayed until the next day. Mr. Benton called on his way in to work, which was most unusual, as it is not really on his way, but I did not admit him to the house. I did not trust him.”

“Whilst you were at dinner, did anything unusual happen?”

She frowned.

“There was the telegram”, she said. “A boy came, and Edgar went to see to it, but it was in error. There is a Mr. and Mrs. Strong who live at the other end of the street – we are not related – so I presumed that it must have been for them.”

Sherlock nodded as if he had been expecting that piece of news. There was a strange silence between them.

“You are aware, madam”, he said slowly, “that if I investigate a case, I pursue it to the end. Even if the outcome may not be to my client’s liking?”

She held his gaze. I stared between them. There was something going on here.

“Edward is innocent”, she said firmly. “I would stake my life on it. I know from your friend's books - over-dramatic, but that sort of thing sells, I suppose - that you follow justice first and the law second. If I had wanted the law, I would have gone to a lawyer or the police. I want justice, and I am prepared to pay for it.”

“I think that, given the circumstances, I would rather discuss payment once the case is settled”, Sherlock said mysteriously. “I also think that it would be beneficial that I speak with your son Edgar.”

“He is a clerk at Dunston’s Bank in Aldwych”, she said. “It is in Montressor Street. He is working today, and they close at four.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then the doctor and I must take up no more of your valuable time”, he said firmly. “If you are so good as to leave a card, I shall communicate any findings to you as soon as I have them.”

She nodded, placed a card on the fireside table, rose to her feet and sailed from the room. I felt silently pleased. Here, at last was one lady who had not simpered at....

Damnation! Right there in the doorway! And why did none of them ever simper at me? What was I, chopped liver?

And if that was a smirk, then someone was not getting cudd..... held in a manly-like manner tonight!

+~+~+

It was nearly lunch-time, so Sherlock suggested we take a cab to my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square, and then proceed to nearby Aldwych. I enjoyed my meal, though I did not see what young Mr. Edgar Strong could hope to add to his mother’s excellent testimony. 

Dunston’s Bank was a small but elegant building, and judging from the people we saw inside, they clearly catered to a most exclusive clientele. We were introduced to the manager, a dapper middle-aged fellow called Mr. Thaddeus Buckland-Woods who, on finding out who Sherlock was, looked like he was going to need my professional services quite soon. Fortunately my friend soon calmed him down.

“In pursuance of an investigation which, of course, has _no_ connection to such a venerable institution as this”, he said smoothly, “I need to ask Mr. Edgar Strong one or two questions. I am sure you would rather that I do this in the privacy of one of your back rooms than over the counter, in front of everybody?”

Mr. Buckland-Woods swallowed at the very idea, and managed to turn even paler.

“Indeed!” he said weakly.

“I would, however, appreciate your personal opinion of the young gentleman before I speak to him”, Sherlock said. “The questions I have to ask of him are important, you see, and I have never met him myself. You know him. What is he like?”

The manager swallowed nervously.

“Be assured that anything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence”, Sherlock said reassuringly. 

The manager hesitated again before speaking. 

“Mr. Strong fulfills his job quite.... adequately”, he said, “but…. I do not really like to say this, but I have reason to suspect that he does not handle his own finances very well.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked. Again, a hesitation.

“He seems to be quite liberal with his money at staff functions”, the manager said carefully. “I have had the, uh, 'pleasure' of meeting his mother once, and….. well, I came away with the impression that she was not the sort of person to provide him with a generous allowance.” 

He smiled a little. 

“You must understand, gentlemen, that in the word of banking, we often have to rely on our instincts as to whether the gentlemen – and ladies, these days - that we have dealings with are what they appear to be. We can institute subsequent checks, of course, and in this case the young man in question was what he appeared to be, which was why we took him on. Or rather my predecessor did; I only took over here four months ago, and when it comes to Mr. Strong, my own instincts tends towards the negative. My predecessor felt that there was room for improvement, but that he might improve with age, as many do. And in all fairness I should re-iterate that his work here has been..... satisfactory.”

“I must thank you for being so candid with me”, Sherlock said. “Be assured that we shall keep what you have said to ourselves. Would you kindly arrange for us to see him now?”

+~+~+

I must say that my first impression of Mr. Edgar Strong was not a favourable one. I could only assume he took after his father, for there was nothing of his formidable mother in his appearance. He had clearly been informed as to who we were, and his demeanour was one of polite curiosity. 

“You wished to speak with me, gentlemen?” he asked. 

“I did have one particular question that I wished to ask you, yes”, Sherlock said. “Who was it?”

The young man looked puzzled.

“Who was what, sir?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

“You try my patience, young sir”, he said with a surprising degree of sharpness. “If you will not deal with me, then I will advise your mother to lay the matter before the police. I should inform you that in the circumstances, they may well decide to push for a charge of attempted murder.”

The young man went pale.

“Mu.... murder?” he blurted out. 

“Mr. Benton, or Mr. Stubbs?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

For a moment I thought he would remain silent, but finally he muttered ‘Hilary’ before slumping into his folded arms. Sherlock stood up.

“I shall give you twenty-four hours”, he said bluntly. “At the end of that time, I will advise your mother to go to the police. I hope that we understand each other, sir.”

He swept from the room, and I scurried after him. 

+~+~+

“But how could you know that the son was involved?” I asked as we were being driven back to Baker Street. “There was no motive.”

“The motive was one of the oldest in the book”, Sherlock smiled. “Love of money. Mrs. Strong keeps her son on a tight leash, but he clearly likes the good things in life. Mr. Benton could see that, and he wanted his cousin Mr. Stubbs to succeed him when he retired. The bridge competition was a setback, but also an opportunity.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Mr. Benton knows that changing one or two figures on the design will render the bridge a failure”, he said, “or perhaps even cause it to collapse when a train passes over it, like the Tay Bridge did. But he has to alter those plans before they are handed over, as his own superior would spot any alterations, and almost certainly question Mr. Strong over them. By using his key to his rival's desk – which the man does not initially know that he possesses - he is able to create a near-identical copy, which he gives to the son. He then lets Mr. Strong know of the key, and the man responds, as he had known he would, by taking the plans home 'for safe keeping'. That evening, a fake telegram, sent by Mr. Benton, enables the son to excuse himself from dinner and make the switch. It was his bad luck that he did not notice the faint thumb-print that his father had left in one corner of the original, and that his father later mentioned that fact to his good lady wife.”

“Poor Mrs. Strong”, I said. “She will be heartbroken.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Oh John!” he said with a sigh. “Really!”

“What?” He was looking at me almost pityingly.

“Mrs. Strong is fully aware of her eldest son’s perfidy”, he said calmly. “If there were to be a police investigation, her poor husband would be mortified by all the publicity. No, Mr. Edgar Strong will flee abroad somewhere, and we can but hope that he is considerate enough to inform his confederate of the collapse of their nefarious scheme, so that he joins him in making the country a better place by their combined absences. There will be a little publicity, but hopefully it will soon pass. People's attention spans are short these days.”

+~+~+

Sherlock was, as usual, right. Both Mr. Edgar Strong and Mr. Hilary Benton fled abroad when their scheme was exposed, and were never heard of again. The British police decided not to pursue either of them, bearing in mind the curious circumstances of the potential crime. Mr. Edward Strong was indeed affected by the ‘loss’ of his son and heir, but he was consoled by being promoted to the position held by one of the men who had tried to ruin him, and his bridge over the Larch proved a great success. Indeed, ten years later his engineering achievements were such that he was made a knight of the realm, which of course meant that Mrs. Strong became a Lady.

The poor English nobility had no idea what was about to hit it!

+~+~+

Our next case involved a stolen dog. Or two.


End file.
